


Lukewarm

by DarkIsRising



Series: planned it [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Fever, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Whump, din didn't think jedi got sick, grogu is no help at all, luke has a fever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29913696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkIsRising/pseuds/DarkIsRising
Summary: The Jedi is sick, this much is clear.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Series: planned it [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2208843
Comments: 110
Kudos: 366





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many many many thanks to [treescape](https://archiveofourown.org/users/treescape/pseuds/treescape) for all the tech help for this hopeless soul. 
> 
> Originally posted on my [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/darkisrising) as a wip.

The Jedi is sick, this much is clear.

It wouldn't be any business of Din's except this is the guy that's supposed to watch over his kid. The guy that’s supposed to protect him when Din isn’t around, and if there's one thing Din has known since the moment he’d survived a shootout to find the little gremlin’s bassinet, it’s that danger follows Grogu like stink on a bantha.

If his kid is going to be here his life depends on the Jedi being in fighting shape. And this—this rheumy-eyed, dewy-skinned, slightly-shivering man—is decidedly _not_ in any shape to fight.

"I'm fine,” the Jedi lies from where he sits at the clearing’s edge, legs crossed and leaning just-this-side-of-too-much against the trunk of a tree. “Really."

The cough that follows his words wracks the Jedi's body so hard he doubles over, torso practically folded into his own lap from the force of it.

"I can see that," Din says, the edge of his sarcasm flattened as it works its way through his helmet’s modulator. Nevertheless, he knows the Jedi hears it when the skin of his jaw moves a bit, teeth obviously clenching tight below.

It’s the only tell of annoyance in an otherwise calm expression.

"You know, I’ve done plenty of things harder than this in my life. I've shot down TIE fighters. I've battled Sith lords. I brought down an empire,” the Jedi says, and the list would be impressive if he could manage any kind of fire as he recited it.

As it is, it all sounds rather dull. Rather tepid, and it’s not like any of this is news to Din.

Despite what everyone seems to think of him, Din isn’t totally ignorant of current events and galactic happenings.

Okay, fine, he _had_ been up until fairly recently but he’s made a point of catching up, starting with asking around until he’s learned a thing or two about Luke Skywalker: the Jedi who’d shown up like a miracle and taken his child away. So he doesn’t really need to hear about the hotshot flying ace thing, and the Death Star destroyed by impossible luck thing, and the whole rebellion would have fallen apart without him and his now-Senator sister thing.

And, true, when all he’d known of Luke Skywalker was a man cloaked in black wielding a flaming laser sword, yeah, the stories all made perfect sense.

Since then Din’s visited Grogu on this jungle moon enough times to come to know the Jedi a little better. He’s seen smiles bright enough to power space stations. He’s heard laughs so open and genuine he wonders how all the ugliness the Jedi must have seen hasn’t scrubbed his joy away, like it has for everyone else in Din’s life.

It isn’t that he doubts the stories, it’s just that Din is having a tough time squaring battle hardened veteran turned space wizard Luke Skywalker with giggling delightedly to see Grogu magic-float a frog to him Luke Skywalker.

As if reading his mind—another annoying Jedi trait—he continues on. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of your kid with a cold. If I were sick.” He swipes the sheen of sweat away from his upper lip with the back of his wrist and gracelessly swipes that off on the thigh of his tight, black pants. “Which I’m not.”

"Mm-hm," Din says, a neutral enough sound.

"And anyway," he says with a grin that could have been winsome if not for the pallor of the skin it's set in. "Jedi don't get sick."

Din challenges the Jedi with a stare through his visor. The Jedi gives as good as he gets, staring right back, and sometimes it startles Din how easily the Jedi finds his eyes through the blacked out screen of his helmet. Most beings tend to stare at their own beskar reflection when they speak to him, but the Jedi is somehow able to meet his gaze every time.

"Then I guess you're not a Jedi," Din counters. “Since you are sick.”

Opening his mouth to reply, Din braces for the smart ass response he's come to expect, but the Jedi has another coughing fit instead.

It’s worse than before, and by the time it’s over Din isn’t amused anymore. Now he’s feeling bad for the guy, even if it’s his own kriffing fault for insisting on leaving the temple’s dry comfort for his usual pre-dawn meditation, sniffling along the way. Din had made sure Grogu was deep asleep and dreaming about trouble before following the stubborn Jedi, watching him sit as the wet of the morning fog rolled in, soaking through the Jedi’s cloak, and collecting in droplets along the shine of Din’s armor. 

"Come on,” Din says with a sigh that his helmet muffles, pulling the Jedi to his feet and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “Bed. Now. We can decide if you're a fraud later."

"And what if I am?" There’s a sharpness to his voice that would be impressive if the Jedi isn’t also sagging heavily in Din’s arms, tripping over the underbrush as they go.

"You're not," Din says in a clip, pressing a steading hand on the Jedi’s waist.

They’re nearly to the temple when the Jedi says, so softly Din almost misses it: "Feels like I am, most days."

And that’s one song Din knows the tune of, because he’s had those thoughts himself. Alone, with nothing but deep space to keep him company, wondering if all the true Children of the Watch had died in the sewers of Nevarro, and if they had what, then, did that make him?

"Yeah,” Din says and they leave it at that.

***

“Stay,” Din says, depositing the Jedi in his bed with a firm voice and a raised finger, like he’s talking to Grogu.

The Jedi raises a finger of his own, and it’s not one that is usually seen in the kind of company he’d expect to find a Jedi among, especially one whose sister is a senator.

“Nice.” Din rolls his eyes behind the safety of his helmet and yet, somehow, the Jedi is huffing a weak laugh as if he sees it all the same.

He closes the Jedi’s bedroom door and immediately trips over a curious, wandering Grogu. The kid blinks up at him, still muzzy from sleep, and since there’s no one around to see him do it, Din gives in to his impulse, dropping down to sit on the floor right there in the hall. He braces his back against an ancient, crumbling yellow wall and holds his arms out for Grogu to hop into his lap.

“Looks like I’m sticking around a little longer than planned this time around,” he tells the child, stroking his long, pointed ear with a fond knuckle. “Bajiri is sick.”

Grogu trills a question before raising his hand in a way that has Din on edge as he waits for whatever magic thing he’s about to do.

The Jedi’s door starts to slide open and Din only catches it by lurching up. He’s able to bang on the sensor before it gets too far and he watches as it closes again.

“No, none of that. You’ve got to let him rest.”

Big, black eyes shine up at him.

“I know. I’m worried, too,” he admits softly, adding more to himself than to Grogu: “Never heard of a sick Jedi before.”

The kid’s ears droop and Din hurries to comfort him, drawing him in closer. “But I’m sure he’ll be fine. Until he is, I’ll take care of him. But I want you to leave him alone, okay?”  
A green, three-fingered hand raises up again and Din catches the tiny claws between his palms.

"Quit opening the door.”

Relenting with a grumble, Grogu lowers his hand.

“This is going to be great, kid,” he says, trying to sound upbeat, but Grogu doesn’t seem convinced.

Din can’t blame him. As far as imitations of the Jedi go, this one is rather pathetic. 

Still, something seems to have gotten through to the kid, because he does leave his bajirii alone after that. Din tries to keep him distracted by taking him on a walk through the moon’s dense forest. They go down to his favorite pond and Din watches him chase the frogs around for a bit. They’ve wizened up since the last time Din was here, clearing out quickly when they see the tiny robed menace toddling their way.

And it’s good. It’s really good to be like this for a little while, giving Grogu his full attention as he scampers about. Usually Din only gets to half watch Grogu play while he keeps an eye on his helmet’s chrono—a heavy, guilty weight turning his stomach to lead—as it counts down the seconds until he has to leave again. 

Grogu is curled up against Din’s shoulder, dozing off when they finally get back to the temple. With practiced ease Din is able to slip him into his bassinet without waking him from his nap. Din has time now, and so he lets himself lose some here, watching the kid as he twitches and sighs out gentle breaths in his sleep.

The Jedi is also asleep when Din goes to check on him, but his is a shivering, uneasy rest.

“Here,” Din says, waking him with a hand pressed to his shoulder, finding him through the sheets that are pulled up high around his throat. “I brought you some water, Jedi.”

He’s staring up at Din sideways with one single blue eye. It’s glassy and the whites are shot through with red, but still it stubbornly finds Din’s.

“Luke,” the Jedi says, and his name comes out sounding as scuffed up and worn down as Boba Fett’s beskar.

Din can’t bring himself to actually say it, but he does acquiesce with a nod.

“Luke,” he tests out loud to himself later in the mess as he scavenges for lunch.

“Luke,” he tries again in his room, when the day has tipped to night and Grogu has blinkingly gone to sleep.

“Luke,” he says from his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling and the swirling shapes of shadows that rise and fall there.

In the morning, Din tries it out for real and he’s practiced it enough times by now that it very nearly comes out without hesitation.

The Jedi—Luke—isn’t feeling much better, but he does greet the sound with a smile.

***

The next day he’s worse.

Din stands in the doorway, activating his helmet’s thermal scanner, and he isn’t surprised to see the shape in the bed flare with reds and oranges. Fever has set in, and there’s not much more Din can do other than give him a glass of water, some paracetamol tabs he’d tossed the abandoned medbay until he found, and leave Luke alone to sleep it out. 

That’s what Din should do, but it isn’t what he does.

Instead he pulls his gloves off and with the flat of a palm Din tries to feel for himself the heat that his scanner already confirmed is there. Luke’s eyes are closed, blond eyelashes shut tight against flushed skin, and the rattle of his breathing is a coarse thing that Din can feel roughen up his own lungs. 

“You’re supposed to use the back of your hand.”

It’s a good thing his helmet hides his expression because Din startles to hear Luke’s voice. He’d seemed so out of it a click ago but, then again, _Jedi_.

He must have some kind of magic trip sensor for people touching him.

“You are checking for a fever right?” His voice is ragged and slow, like it hurts to speak, though that doesn’t stop him. Blue eyes open and find his without hesitation. “You’re supposed to use the back of your hand. At least, that's what my aunt Beru always did.” A smile cracks his face and it’s at odds with his bright, unfocused eyes. “Unless you just wanted to touch me, then feel free to use whatever part of your hand you’d like.”

Din pulls back reflectively, fast, like he’s about to be sniped by enemy fire.

Luke’s smile wavers, only to be replaced by something that looks very much the same, even if Din is struck by how false the new smile is. “Or don’t,” Luke says with a clumsy half-shrug and Din wants to apologize for being the one to put this sudden distance between them.

“Here,” Din says instead, taking the tabs out from where he’d tucked them away in a pouch on his belt. Luke’s hand is turned up by his side and Din drops the medicine into it. He tries not to notice the way his bare fingers skim along Luke’s palm, or how Luke’s hand curls at the touch. “Hold on, I’ll grab you some water and—”

But Luke has already dry swallowed the tabs with a grimace.

“Thanks,” he says, before rolling over to his side.

Din should leave. The dismissal in Luke’s succinct ‘thanks’ was clear, but he’s left standing and staring. There’s something about the bare expanse of skin at the nape of Luke’s neck that is so vulnerable. Pale. Din wants to reach out and touch it.

So he does.

Luke rolls back over, eyes big. Surprised.

“I wanted to,” Din shrugs, and because he’s not brave enough to stick around to see what Luke might say to that, Din turns on his heel, escaping out the door.

For the next four hours Din feels nervous. Jittery. He takes Grogu out for a walk and all the while he doesn’t stop worrying about what Luke will say the next time Din goes to check on him.

As it turns out the fever is now burning hotter than before, and Luke’s mouth is too pinched in tight agony to say anything at all.

Time fractures after that—peels away—until everything can be measured in four hour increments.

Din waits out each new dose, watching from a tentative perch on the bed’s edge as Luke’s face slackens in relief when the medicine kicks in before he leaves to take care of Grogu. Every time he comes back it’s to soft moans, and clacking teeth, until finally the sweating starts. Then it’s endless cycles of the fever breaking and returning and breaking. He comes back to find the sheets pulled up to Luke’s neck, then tangled down around his ankles, and then pulled up once more. 

He doesn’t touch Luke again. He does think about it though. Thinks about taking off his glove and flickering his fingers along the sheen near Luke’s temple. Running his knuckle across the ridge of Luke’s cheekbone.

Sometimes, late at night, when he’s tired enough to think such things, he imagines not using his hands at all.

Din still isn’t too sure whether Luke’s Jedi powers mean that he can read his thoughts or not, so it’s a good thing that he’s too sick to peer into Din’s mind at the moment. 

Mostly, though, Din just sits with one hip on the mattress and worries.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s raining.

Big, fat droplets fall against Yavin IV’s forest canopy and the sound of all that water hitting all those leaves is thunderous.

Grogu wants to go out in it. Of course he does, and the kid keeps trying for it, too: rushing at the temple’s entrance whenever Din’s back is turned.

Din is exhausted. His brain is moving like sluggish molasses and the last thing he wants to deal with is scraping mud out from between his beskar on _top_ of keeping two beings in this temple alive.

He loses track of how many times he has to scoop the kid into his arms and haul him away from temptation, but it’s enough that he gets sick of this game.

So they compromise and explore the temple which is both vast _and_ dry.

The tight halls and corridors of the living quarters wind down even tighter stairways, eventually spilling out to the lower levels that Din hasn’t paid much attention to except when he docks his ship. Grogu sprints through the wide hanger bay, still strewn with power cables and tool kits and everything else long forgotten from a war Din stayed far away from.

There are other places down here that Din loses track of Grogu in, places that the electrical is too rat-chewed to do much more than sputter weakly before cutting out entirely, and more than once he has to engage his visor’s night vision to find the kid among the debris of centuries-old ruins.

In contrast to that, the rebellions’ former tactical theater is practically cutting edge despite the thick dust that has settled across the equipment. Grogu sneezes and Din is about to tell him to keep it moving, when he realizes that some of the dust here has been disturbed. Curious, Din follows the tracks to a holoprojector and turns it on, programming it to pull up the last played ‘vid.

The holo snaps to life, surrounding Din with what looks like hundreds of Rebels standing at attention in a section of temple Grogu had only just finished running through the echoing emptiness of. A ceremony is underway and Din turns to see a familiar figure sauntering toward the main dais beside a dark haired human and a long limbed wookie.

Luke’s younger in the holo, which is to be expected, but it’s especially obvious with his blond hair feathering out behind his ears, catching gold in the tall shaft of sunlight that cuts through the hall. With a blaster strapped to his thigh and a tawny leather jacket, he is every bit the piloting wonderkid Din has heard stories about.

Then he flashes a sly glance and a quicksilver grin and Din can’t help but think that he looks like nothing but trouble.

Stopping the holo Din stares at this Luke Skywalker.

It’s one he’s never met before. 

There’s a lightness to him, a buoyancy, as if whatever had tempered him into the Jedi Din knows is still years off.

He realizes with a start that the black glove that he’s used to seeing on Luke’s right hand isn’t there. 

Din’s not sure what to make of that. Just like he isn’t sure why he takes a capture of this younger Luke and loads it into his helmet’s visual memory, only it seems like something he might want to take out and turn over one day when he’s got nothing but barren space and empty time to keep him company.

The crowds disappear when the holo shuts off, throwing Grogu and Din back into a world of dust and decay. Grogu gurgles a question and raises his arms to be carried, so Din takes him into the crook of his elbow for the long walk back up to their rooms.

Huge eyes blink up at him. The kid is quieter than he’s been all day.

While all evidence points to Luke coming down here to relive his glory days—pulling up an old holo of his younger self standing on a dais surrounded by cheering Rebels with a medal around his neck—Din knows he isn’t the type for it. Which then begs the question: why is this the one thing that Luke bothered to seek out when so much else in the temple-turned-base-turned-temple-again has been left to rot?

The answer comes to Din in the loud tread of his boots, in the yawning stillness of these empty chambers meant for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of beings to occupy at once.

“I think your bajirii is lonely,” Din mutters, as much to Grogu as to himself.

***

By the sixth day Luke’s fever breaks.

It seems like it’s for good this time, which is why Din is surprised when, on the seventh day, he walks in to find Luke having an impassioned disagreement with the foot of his bed.

“ —you’re _such_ a hypocrite—” Luke is saying in a voice still husky from illness, though he quickly goes quiet when he realizes Din is standing in the doorway.

“Uh,” Din says, not sure if he should fly Luke to the nearest medic or give him some privacy to continue.

“You’re fine.” Luke waves him in. “We’re done.”

Din warily skirts around the place Luke is staring at to get to his side. “Friend of yours?”

“Distant relation,” Luke says, making a point to emphasize the word ‘distant’ and Din’s sure that if he knew anything about what is going on he’d be suitably impressed with that rejoinder.

As things stand now, Din is confused.

Confusion gives way to relief when he checks to find that his scanner isn't picking up any extra heat from Luke’s body, which means the hallucinations haven’t come about because his illness has gotten worse.

The confusion returns when he realizes that, without the fever as an excuse, Luke is in fact talking to nothing.

Din decides—for the sake of his own peace of mind—that this is a Jedi thing and leaves it at that.

***

Without the fever and the paracetamol tabs to dole out, Din goes from checking on Luke every four hours to every six.

Then only at mealtimes when he brings Luke something to eat in his room, until the day Din looks up from wrestling Grogu’s slithering meal into submission to see Luke walking into the half lit mess hall.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks with a small smile, his lungs only ratting a little from the cough that still lingers.

Now, he tells himself, he’s just waiting for Luke’s cough to go away. When it’s gone, Din will leave. 

And then one day even that is gone, too.

Din’s time here is dwindling to an end. He can see it in the sideways glances he catches Luke sending his way when he doesn’t think Din is paying attention. Luke never says anything, and Din— remembering the sound of Grogu’s tiny footsteps echoing through a chamber lit by a single shaft of daylight, the dais occupied only by dust and memories—doesn’t think he ever will.

Din decides to check his comm for the first time in weeks, and finds his messages have piled up with job offers that have gone unanswered. 

With a start he realizes that he’s never stayed this long in one place since he was a boy. His ship, sure, but never a place with trees to step around and ponds to sit by and stars to look at from a distance. The room he’s been staying in is starting to pile up with stuff—weird rocks that Grogu hands to him with ceremonious solemnity on their walks and the last of the medicine that Luke never needed are strewn across a tabletop. The floor is littered with wires and tools from the half-hearted tinkering he’s been doing on some of the tech he found in the lower levels that might be useful to Luke while he’s gone.

So he chooses a message to answer at random and when Cara’s familiar figure flickers in blue in front of him he says: “Yeah, I’ll do it,” without really even knowing what he’s agreeing to, only he’s got to do this now before he loses his nerve. “Send me the coordinates.”

***

Din steps into the clearing and can see that there isn’t nearly as much fog as the last time he’d come out here to find Luke etched dark against the early morning light. 

The Jedi is sitting at the far end of the meadow beneath the same tree as before with his legs crossed, palms resting on his knees, and his hood pulled up. There's an elegance to his loneliness, and maybe that's why Din hadn't realized before just how large this temple is for one guy and one Grogu to be alone in.

He knows he’s disturbing the gentle peace of the moment but there’s nothing Din can do to disguise the wet, sucking sound his boots make as they tread through the dew softened grass.

“You’re leaving,” Luke says without opening his eyes and somewhere in the distance a bird shrieks a greeting as another bird answers. 

“I am.”

“About time, I guess.” Opening his eyes he easily meets Din’s gaze through his visor and gives a smile that is so small and complicated Din knows that deciphering it is far beyond his ability. “It’s not like you could stay here forever.”

_But I want to,_ Din doesn’t say, and it must be true that Jedi really can’t read minds because Luke doesn’t seem to have heard that thought even though it fills Din until he’s choking with it.

Instead Luke is pushing himself up to standing and when his hood falls to his shoulders he doesn’t move to stop it. Luke looks better than he has in a while—stronger, more alert—and Din feels something in his chest finally ease to see him standing here tall and healthy in the faint blue of dawn.

“Thank you for staying with me. For taking care of me. It was a kindness, and one that I appreciate.” His expression changes into something with a teasing edge and this smile Din can read because he’s seen it’s like before. “Even if it wasn’t necessary, because I would have been totally fine on my own.” 

Din snorts. “You think so, Jedi?”

“Yeah, Mando, I do,” Luke returns, raising an eyebrow for good measure. “What? You don’t believe me?”

“I believe that I chased the kid around for a week, bringing you tabs and food, while you laid in bed moaning—”

Luke’s smile sparks like fire against dry kindling and it becomes so bright with delighted mischief that it’s luminous. Beneath the cool safety of his helmet Din feels his cheeks burn.

“Moaning, huh?”

Din isn’t a coward, so he stands there motionless as he faces down Luke’s amusement even if his body is screaming to turn away.

Luke is too merciful to be an effective tormentor, so he gives Din the distance he needs by glancing away. “Anyway,” Luke says. “It’s just as well you came out here to say goodbye, I was getting nowhere with my meditation.”

“Oh?” Din says and though he’s never been one for small talk he’s so grateful for this change in the conversation he clings to it with everything he’s got. “What’s on your mind?”

Now Luke is the one going still and blushing.

“Ah. Well,” he says, and because Luke isn’t a coward, either, his spine becomes durasteel-straight and he meets Din’s gaze again, eyes blue and resolute. “I was meditating on the nature of attachment. I was talking to my… someone who would know what the Code has to say about it and he told me that attachments are forbidden for Jedi.”

“Oh,” Din says, blinking, not sure what all Luke’s blushing has to do with some weird Jedi mystic philosophy.

“Yeah, because the thing is I am getting attached.” He takes a steadying breath and now, as Din is starting to get a sense of where this is leading, he’s in need of steadying breaths, himself. “To Grogu. And, well.”

“And?” Din asks even though he has to lick his lips to get the word out.

“Yeah. _And_.” Luke’s smile is back and this time it’s shy around the edges. “And to you. I’m more than attached, truth be told.”

Din thought he knew bravery. He thought he’d seen it before—facing off against impossible odds, the smell of blaster fire scorching the air, the plummeting sickness of knowing that even the best don’t live much longer than the unlucky most of the time.

This is different. This is an unflinching vulnerability. A willingness to be hurt in a way that will never draw blood, will never scar, will never be rendered in anything that can ever be pointed to as proof that it happened at all, and something deep in Din aches to see it.

So it seems, all things considered, that if Luke is willing to forsake his own people’s customs for Din, then the least he can do is meet him halfway.

With a heart hammering at his ribcage—so hard and loud it makes his ears ring—Din takes off his helmet.


	3. Chapter 3

Din has gotten used to viewing the galaxy through readouts and sensors and a thin sliver of visor. He’s gotten used to knowing not just that Yavin’s sun is shining, but also its radioactivity level and the directional pull of its gravity and its exact placement in the galaxy with a flick of his eyes. 

Now, without his helmet, it’s just sunlight, and he has to close his eyes against it while a soft breeze stirs along his brow. The smell of the forest is complicated with life, and dirt and leaves but that’s all he knows.

It’s quieter, without the sound of his own breathing bouncing off beskar around his head. Calmer _inside_ his head for having made this decision.

All that's left to do is open his eyes and take in the fallout for himself.

Luke is startled. It’s evident in the way he holds himself perfectly still, as if moving would scare Din back into hiding like some kind of woodland critter. The thought makes Din smile and Luke’s answering smile is bright, brighter than the filter of Din’s helmet could ever let him see. 

Blue eyes—so blue, so much bluer than they had been on Gideon’s cruiser—meet his and Din knows that Luke understands how hard this is for him.

He hadn’t before. Not when Din had removed his helmet, had felt Grogu’s hand on his chin like a brand and then watched as his whole universe had been slowly carried away from him. Luke hadn’t known then that Din’s beliefs went to the bone, carved there by his saviors along with a promise that if he followed their teachings he could _stay_ safe.

Luke couldn’t have known that no living thing had seen his face and might never have until the day he died and the scavengers stripped his beskar away, except for the fact that Din's been changed from his time crossing the stars with the kid at his side.

He might never have shown Luke his face again, either, but for the fact that Din's beliefs have been eroding away as he’s watched his kid grow sure and powerful under Luke’s gentle guidance. Here, in the temple of an enemy as driven to extinction as his own people have been, Din has found a new creed to cleave to in the lines of Luke’s smile. Din has found a new Way to follow in the steady stewardship of his gaze.

Luke’s eyes skip across Din’s bare face now, taking him in.

“About how you remember it?” Din asks, and Luke’s smile catches fast—incandescent and glittering and golden.

“Better.”

It feels right, then, to lean forward into him and Luke, who is so attuned to Din it must be Jedi magic, meets him halfway.

Their lips press together and Din means to leave it at that: a chaste kiss.

Something that’s both a memory to keep with him and a future to look forward to.

What he’d forgotten to account for is Luke. Brilliant Luke. Dazzling Luke. The Luke that he’d once caught a glimpse of in a flickering holovid. The darling of the resistance, the daredevil that took down a planet destroyer with a single shot.

Kissing him is like having his ship’s stabilizers blasted out. Din is thrown into empty space, spinning in a barrel roll, and he doesn’t know which way is up anymore.

Luke is pressed into the truck of a tree and his arms are wrapped tight around Din's neck, though Din has no idea who grabbed what where to get there. Luke’s tongue seeks out his and in his kiss Din can feel hunger and strength, he can taste sweetness and relief. His fingers wind through Din's hair and his mouth is moving like he’s got something to say. Din pulls away enough to hear that it is a steady chant—“I want you, I want you”—and now Din can’t breathe for how much he wants Luke, too.

“You know,” Din says, voice rough-hewn and low. “I've never—” _Had the time. Had the interest. Had someone I cared enough about._ “Done much like this before.”

“Oh!” Luke pulls back. His lips are glistening slick and Din swallows to see it. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t... If this isn’t what you want. That is, we don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Din cuts in. “I do. I just don’t know _how_.”

“Oh.” He blinks. “Oh, well, that’s no problem. Because I do. Know how, I mean, and if you want me to—”

“I do.” Fervently. With all his heart.

“Well, then. Here.” Wickedness flashes across his gilded features. “After everything you’ve been doing for me, I think it’s about time I take care of _you_ for a change.”

Luke falls to his knees and there’s a glitch in Din’s brain because after that he loses track of time and space. His pants are pulled down just enough that Luke’s gloved hand can find him, can take him out, can wrap around his hardness, and stroke Din until he's straining with it.

Din is groaning and Luke leans in closer. His lips are soft across the tip of Din’s cock, a sweet brush back and forth—devastating for its simplicity—and it doesn't take long before Din is leaking from it. Luke catches the first beads of precum on his bottom lip and then he's tipping his face back. Eyes flickering up to Din’s, it’s like he is making sure he's being watched, as if Din _could_ look anywhere else, before he’s licking the smear of it away.

"Shab ibic shab shabuir," Din curses in wonder and Luke beams.

"That good, huh?" He laughs, basking in Din’s attention. "Well then you're going to love this."

There’s no more teasing; now Luke’s mouth is stretching wide as he takes Din in. His throat is wet and hot and when he sucks, cheeks hollowing, Din curses against the intense pleasure of it. Luke’s head moves with a rhythm, bringing him in and out, and Din has to brace his forearms against the tree before he forgets how to use his legs entirely.

Trapped in the space between, Din is suddenly very aware that he is looming over Luke—in his armor no less—while Luke is in nothing but the soft folds of his black cloak and his simple black clothes. When Luke’s hands grab Din by the hips, urging him to move, Din balks.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Din says. He already looks so vulnerable, kneeling and taking it.

Luke’s mouth is too full to speak, the quirk of his eyebrow says volumes. Luke’s hands on his hips are insistent, pulling Din in again, and he’s humming reassurances as the flat of his tongue finds the underside of Din’s cock.

Tentatively Din rocks forward, and Luke hums again, this time in approval. He does it again and he gets the same sound for his effort. Though it goes against every instinct he has—to protect, to care for, to keep safe—he does what Luke wants. He fucks into his mouth and Luke takes him in, all of him. 

Luke's throat is open and his eyes close like he wants to savor this. Like Din is giving him everything he’s ever wanted, sandwiched between the truck of a tree and the smooth coldness of Din’s beskar.

Din has to look away, to close his eyes. The base of Din's spine is singed, electricity building along the lines of his nerves, and this pleasure is a scalding thing. It's rising, building, and Din can only dig his gloved nails into rough tree bark for purchase.

A moment and eternity later Din finally looks back down to see that Luke is taking him in so deeply his lips are nearly touching Din’s wiry dark hair and that’s it, that’s as much as Din can hold off. He gasps a warning and starts to pull away, but Luke is ready for him. Catching his hips and holding him still, Din is helpless in Luke’s sure grip.

Somehow Din’s hands drop to the top of Luke’s head, black leather against a golden gleam. He’s holding on now and Luke is making sounds like he’s happy about where he is, what he’s doing. Din pumps his release into Luke’s mouth and Luke is keening and swallowing and it’s better than he could have ever dared to hope for.

When he’s got nothing left in him he hauls Luke up by his shirtfront, props his back against the tree, and kisses him until Luke is panting. 

“You know,” Luke says when he finally comes up for air with a wet sound that makes Din’s spent cock twitch with hope. “You never did tell me your name.”

Din’s body jerks in shock, like he’s been sucker punched in the kidneys, and he pulls away to stare at Luke in horror.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Luke continues. “I know it. I asked around about you, but, you’ve never really, well, told me and I don't want to presume—” Presume. _Presume_ when they know the taste of each other’s tongues, Din’s just come in his mouth, and Luke is holding on to his shoulders like he’s never going to let go. “—I don’t mind calling you Mando, if that’s what you prefer.”

“Din,” he says and he has to clear his throat through the shock to get his words to sound without crackling. “Din Djarin.”

“Din Djarin,” Luke repeats with a smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Din.”

The sheer absurdity of it hits and Din buries his face in the warmth on Luke's neck. The laugh that is wrenched out of him sounds like a man on the edge—too loud, too fast, too tired—and Luke holds him through it. 

When he finally starts to quiet Din can feel a hand tucking him back into his pants and Luke’s cloak is rough against his cheek when he tips his face to ask: “Do you want me to do you next?”

“There’s no rush. We don’t have to do it all now. I don’t mind working up to it,” Luke says, pressing a kiss to Din’s ear. “Anyway, I got kind of carried away there at the end. I might have been showing off a bit.”

“Showing off?”

“Yeah, what can I say? I think I've got a thing for hot guys in armor.” He jolts at the teasing nip as Luke’s teeth find Din’s earlobe. “Or maybe I've just got a thing for this one guy and his armor.”

Luke is moving languid and slow, all of his earlier urgency seeming to have melted away, but Din’s life has been dictated by tallies and favors for too long to not be acutely aware that of the two of them only Din has gotten off.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Honestly? I’m good like this.” His hands frame Din’s face and he strokes the rough beginnings of a beard that has started growing along Din’s jaw. Instinctively Din wraps his around Luke’s waist, keeping them tethered together. “Just kiss me. Hold me until you have to leave. It’ll give me something to look forward to until you’re back.”

There’s a wistfulness to Luke’s voice that settles into a space in Din’s chest, somewhere along his ribs, and he wonders how he’s gone this long without noticing that he’d been so empty in that spot before. 

“I can do that,” Din says, drawing him in, as if he could feel the press of Luke’s body between the layers of clothes and the distance of beskar. “Though when you start to collect more students we’ll probably have to find a spot a little further away if you want to do anything more than this. Your kids might not appreciate seeing their bajirii so—” 

He can’t bring himself to finish the thought but Luke isn’t quite so prudish as Din. “What? Debauched? On my knees and begging for more?” he laughs.

“Yeah,” Din says swallowing hard. “Yeah, that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, angling his mouth to Din’s. It’s a careful exploration, fond and measured. The kind of kiss that Din could spend the rest of his life lost in, surrounded by the sound of the wind as it rustles the leaves overhead and pressed to this man that he hasn’t even left and already he’s looking forward to coming back to again.

“Do you really think I'm ever going to have enough students for a collection?” Luke asks when the time for Din to leave is an unavoidable thing and they are picking their way through the forest to the temple that rises high above the trees.

“You will.” Even if Din has to travel every parsec in the galaxy to find them, Luke is going to have students to train and good people to surround himself with, because Luke Skywalker isn’t built for loneliness the way that Din is.

The way Din _was_.

Din knows it isn’t the most Mandalorian thing of him to do, to help rebuild the Jedi Order, but maybe that’s because Luke, with his attachments and his getting sick and his smile that rivals the dawning suns of his home planet, isn’t exactly a Jedi. The same way that Din, stepping over a clump of vines with one hand in Luke’s and the other carrying his helmet, isn’t exactly a Mandalorian. They are something else now. Something that meets halfway between the two. 

And Din knows that whatever it is that they are building here—together—will be stronger for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you to my emotional task force/Mandalorian language coaches: [tessiete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessiete) and [treescape](https://archiveofourown.org/users/treescape/pseuds/treescape)


End file.
